


Hand That Sews Time

by GotTheSilver



Series: Supernatural Codas [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, M/M, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8340067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTheSilver/pseuds/GotTheSilver
Summary: It’s not that it was all lies, Dean knows that, she’s as determined and spirited as John had described her, but she’s not—she’s not what Dean expected.  Not really, and he feels like a fucking heel for even thinking that, for placing such high expectations on a woman he never really knew, which is why he’s hiding in the kitchen with a case of beer.  It’s better than seeking out the scotch hidden under the sink, that’s the logic he’s going with here.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title stolen from Led Zeppelin - All My Love.
> 
> [fic post on tumblr](http://motleywolf.tumblr.com/post/152119391822/1202-coda-hand-that-sews-time).

Dean’s learnt to question everything his dad told him—is a long way from the obedient soldier who was trained up at a young age to take orders and nothing else—but he’d always thought he could trust what he’d been told about mom. About who she was, about the kind of mother she was, thought he could trust his own vague childhood memories, but apparently that’s not the case.

It’s not that it was all lies, Dean knows that, she’s as determined and spirited as John had described her, but she’s not—she’s not what Dean expected. Not really, and he feels like a fucking heel for even thinking that, for placing such high expectations on a woman he never really knew, which is why he’s hiding in the kitchen with a case of beer. It’s better than seeking out the scotch hidden under the sink, that’s the logic he’s going with here.

The photos are scattered across his legs, some falling to the floor, and Dean doesn’t know why he’s looking at them. Used to be, they were precious memories, pieces of paper he treasured above nothing else, now he doesn’t know what they are. He loves his mom, that’s never going to be in doubt, but he’s starting to realise he doesn’t know her, never really knew anything much about her, and that’s leaving him with nothing.

Dean shouldn’t be surprised, he’s so often left with nothing, but he thought—when Amara told him she was giving him what he needed—that maybe this time it would be different. That it would be easier. It’s not fair, he thinks, draining the second to last bottle, to get his mom back and have it be this damn hard to get to know her.

He can hear Sam heading to his room, the teabags are still on the counter and, fuck, maybe it’s just one of those things. Maybe Dean’s more like his father, and Sam’s more like Mary, and so Dean’s just never going to have the relationship with her that he wants.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Picking up the photographs, he stacks them up neatly, handling them with care even now, and stands up. Leaning against the counter, he puts them down and looks around the kitchen. It’s a place of peace for him, which he didn’t really expect when they first got to the bunker and he could play with having a kitchen, with being able to cook real meals. Dean thought it was something he got from his mom, but now he’s doubting that, and he’s wondering where the hell this comfort he finds in cooking even came from.

Maybe it’s his own desire for a home that got it twisted; he knows it wasn’t ever picture perfect when his mom and dad were alive and together, but he really thought it came from her, that it was a comfort he found in memories of her in the kitchen. Now he’s wondering if it came from one of those crappy sitcoms he and Sam would watch when they were stuck in a motel for days on end.

“Dean?” Sam walks in, not carrying the journal so Dean knows Mary’s got it, and—Dean’s got that damn thing memorised, but he wonders what she’ll make of it, if she’ll still think John was a good father. Dean tries to hide the photos, but there’s nowhere to put them and Dean looks down, avoiding Sam’s concerned look. “You’re not finishing the pie, are you?” Sam asks.

“No, I—” Dean waves his empty bottle before putting it on the counter. “Having a nightcap.”

Sam nods, his hands trailing over the photographs, fanning them out as he looks at them. “You okay?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Cas healed me up,” Sam says. “I’m fine. You’re drinking in the kitchen alone, looking at old photographs.”

“Yeah. So? It’s weird, having her here.”

“Dean, what—do you not want mom back?”

“How can you—” Dean shakes his head. “No, Sam, I want her here, don’t ever say that. I just. I don’t know how to talk to her.” There’s a look of pity on Sam’s face and Dean doesn’t want that, not from Sam, not from anyone. “I’ll get over it,” he says, walking around the kitchen island towards the door. “I’m going to bed. Long day.”

“Dean, come on, I—”

“Goodnight, Sam,” Dean cuts him off and walks as fast as he can to his bedroom, closing the door behind him firmly in the hopes of stopping Sam from coming after him wanting to talk.

“Hello, Dean,” comes Cas’ voice from where he’s leaning against the wall, and, fuck, Dean was not prepared for that.

“I thought you left,” Dean says, sitting on the edge of the bed and starting to take his boots off. “Why didn’t you join us?”

“It was a family moment, I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Dean pauses in his actions to hold a hand up. “Don’t say it. You’re family, Cas, how many times do I have to say it?”

The bed dips where Cas sits next to him. “Be that as it may, I don’t need to eat.”

“Could’ve hung out,” Dean says, kicking his boots off. “Give me someone to talk to.”

“You didn’t want to talk to Sam? Or your mother?”

Dean looks down at his hands. “I don’t know, man. It’s not—I don’t _know_ her. Not really. I know what dad told me, and I thought I had my own memories, but they’re not who she is.”

Cas leans against Dean, his hands folded in his lap, shoulder pressing against Dean’s side. “No one is ever who we think they are,” he says. “But I am sorry you’re having so much trouble with this, with knowing your mother.”

“I feel like an asshole,” Dean says quietly. “I didn’t think it would be this hard, I thought—I thought because she’s my mom, it would be easy. Should’ve known better.”

“Yes, nothing in your life seems to come easy.”

Dean chokes out a laugh, because if he doesn’t, it’s possible he’s gonna start crying and he’s so fucking exhausted he’s just about holding on by a thread. “Guess it’s how I know this is real.”

“Did you think it wasn’t?” Cas asks, honest concern in his voice.

“No, no, I never thought I was hallucinating, don’t worry.”

“I always worry,” Cas says, knocking his shoulder against Dean.

“Cas—”

“You need to sleep,” Cas interrupts before Dean can get his words out and stands up. “I should—there’s research I could be doing.”

Dean looks up at him, runs his tongue over his dry lips. “Or you could stay.”

“I was planning on—”

“No, I mean.” Dean breaks off and ducks his head, rubbing his hands against his thighs. “Cas, I don’t want to be alone.”

Cas doesn’t say a word in response, but he takes his trenchcoat off, and then the blazer, and Dean’s still sitting on his bed with only his boots removed. Catching up quickly, he sheds most of his other clothing until he’s down to his boxers and t-shirt, and gets under the covers. Cas has taken off his shoes, rolled his sleeves up, putting his forearms on display and Dean can’t help but get distracted by the tanned, exposed skin as Cas hovers by the bed. “You know I don’t sleep,” Cas says eventually, breaking the silence.

“I know.”

“Okay,” Cas says, hesitantly laying on the bed, on top of the covers. “I’ll, uh, stay here.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, rolling onto his side, the last week catching up with him. Just before sleep takes him over, he would swear he feels a press of lips against his forehead, strong fingers running through his hair, but it’s gone before he can form a coherent thought.

“Sleep, Dean,” Cas says softly. “I’ll be here.”

Somehow, that’s the most comforting thing Dean’s heard from anyone in years.


End file.
